Explain
by ZamShazam1995
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John can't bring himself to let go of Sherlock's death, so he plans to kill himself. Will Sherlock be there to save him? One-shot


I didn't believe him. I wouldn't ever believe him. I never doubted him for a second when Moriarty pretended to be an actor. He may have thought I could never have lived up to his 'intellectual level' but I noticed him. His face changed, he was not expecting this change of the game.

But in order for Moriarty to ruin him, he had to ruin the only real friendship Sherlock had. Moriarty needed to tarnish it with doubt to make me turn from him.

So many emotions were complicated in those last few days. So much had happened before I went back to my seemingly normal life by myself.

I clung to the hope the Sherlock was still alive, out there solving cases, just like how it had been. I didn't want to think that he was dead. I wouldn't let myself broach the subject.

I didn't go out much. I stayed in the flat, replaying that phone call over and over in my mind the first few weeks. Mrs. Hudson didn't care much for the finite details of why he did it, but it consumed my every thought. I knew there was a reason; I knew he said it to protect me.

Strangely enough, after his fall, the assassins staying in our neighboring flats moved away. I didn't care too much to think what it meant. My mind still consumed as to why he would try in his last moments to convince me he was a fraud.

I searched the flat for the strange code, but I found nothing. Moriarty touched nothing when he was here (or so I'd been told), so the idea of him somehow leaving something was ludicrous. I wanted desperately to clear Sherlock's name and show the world that Moriarty was who he said he was.

But it never happened.

The nights were the worst. I had the most terrifying dreams. I had a constant one now, of Sherlock ever-falling. Ever with those terrified eyes. I would call out his name and keep running to him. I never got to him though. He would be falling, never hitting the ground, and I would be running, never able to save him. It was awful.

I would wake up with a start, sweating and panting. Then the memories would flood back. He fell, and I watched it all. I saw him die, and I could do nothing about it.

I knew there must be a trick, a game. I knew it wasn't over. And for six months I kept that notion. I rarely went out for fun, just labored over work. I labored the idea that he faked it, that he was alive.

For six months I knew somehow that he couldn't be dead. I just knew in my heart.

I don't know what made me loose hope. Possibly the fact that the newspapers stopped caring about it, they started publishing other things. The old man living three blocks down was murdered; several teenagers vandalized the park on the opposite side of town. Everyone forgot about Sherlock.

I wouldn't. I promised myself I wouldn't forget about him. But as the days went by around me, and the world turned as it always did, I willed it to slow down. I wanted to stop and go back. I never wanted to go back as much as I did then. I didn't want to get on with my life. I didn't want to make a plaque for him and then go on my merry way. I wouldn't let myself forget him.

It became so bad that I kept pondering why I was even there anymore. If he was still alive, then he wasn't coming back for me, so what was the point? If he was dead, then there was no point.

I found myself in the flat for days on end, hand on the revolver. I replayed his death over and over in my mind until it was a movie, constantly showing in the back of my mind.

It was never going to end, this pain, this knowing that he was gone. It was all there was ever going to be. He was gone and that's all there was to it.

The revolver was cool in my hands. It was nothing really, just a piece of hard metal. It was just an object. The tall building was just an object for Sherlock. Strange, to see us going out the same way.

I was helpless to save him, he would be helpless to save me. If he knew wherever he was, that I was suffering this much, would he have done it? Would he have done something else? Would he have told me what was going on?

I put the revolver to my temple with shaking hands, determined to find answers. I never knew much in Heaven or Hell, but it seemed unlikely. It didn't seem to matter anymore.

I cocked the trigger, letting the sound fill my eardrums.

"John." A warm hand covered mine. "Stop."

I turned my head to the side, looking him over. He looked the same, dark coat with wiry dark hair.

I smiled, putting the gun down.

"I knew you'd come."

"I've been watching John." He sat down across from me. "I needed to make it obvious I was gone. I didn't want you knowing, I thought a clean break would be best."

"Then you are stupid." I tossed the gun to him. He frowned, cocking his head to the side.

"It's not loaded." He looked back to me, quizzically.

"Like I said, I knew you'd come. Now explain."


End file.
